i skim the cautionary sign on the wall,
trace the worn, beige corners
of stained, manmade words
with the paint-stained pads
of my fingertips.

the words remind me of how
we want to imprint everything--
silent objects, the cold copper posts
on roadends
they tell you not to question
the autonomous compass
that borrows
inside the souls
of your feet.

who writes the manuscripts for walls?
the dramatic monologues of inanimate objects
my walls of celery speak for themselves:
*this house is powered by tacos.